


Mr. Spock's Space Junk Party

by screamlet



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Car Sex, Cars, Established Relationship, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-20
Updated: 2009-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fuck, Bill thought to himself. Leonard knew him too goddamn well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Spock's Space Junk Party

**Author's Note:**

> For [obstinatrix](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/); pretty much a follow up to her fic [Mr. Spock's Space Menagerie](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/2042.html) and [igrab](http://igrab.livejournal.com)'s [Mr. Spock's Starship Singalong](http://community.livejournal.com/grabi_hands/14870.html); all kind of in the same cracky universe. Based on the prompts: Shatnoy, [the Buick](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v31/vsaturn/trek/tos/nimoy_64_buick_riviera2.jpg), the nickname 'sugar', and sandwiches. Uh.

Fuck, Bill thought to himself. Leonard knew him too goddamn well.

The _bastard_ had waited until Bill had taken a monstrous bite of his deliciously unkosher breakfast sandwich (two kinds of bacon and cheese, he could cry) before springing the horrible, chest-crushing news on him. Bill, being a gentleman, put his sandwich down, chewed his mouthful thoroughly, swallowed, took a sip of coffee, and then folded his hands on the table delicately.

"What the _hell_ do you goddamn _mean_ you're selling the _Buick_?" The word "Buick" was an octave higher than the rest of the sentence and dammit, Leonard was lucky they were in public or the whole scene would involve a lot more lapel-grabbing and sobbing. Fuck, it was the _Buick_ \-- that could still happen. "Somehow, _somehow_ , you get it back after the pet shop debacle -- a sign of fate if I've ever seen one -- and now you want to _sell her_?"

"I did the math. I'm spending on that damn car almost as much as I do on clothes for my kids."

"Your math's usually wrong -- don't think I can't remember that night with the pet shop and your whiskey-ed accounting."

"And my wife doesn't want it anymore."

"Sandy shouldn't be threatened by that monument to our masculinity and friendship."

"Then you should buy it."

"It's called _alimony_ , Len. And child support. And my shitty apartment. I'm hoping to move out of the crazy cat lady motel one day, you know."

"Then we're at an impasse, aren't we?"

Bill took another bite of his sandwich and then, brilliance struck him. It was brilliant. _Brilliant._

*

De looked at the Buick and just _laughed_.

"That sounds promising," Bill whispered to Leonard.

"Now look here, boys," De began. "I took Francine because she's a sweet little kitten and I didn't want her in a zoo..."

" _Sweet little kitten_?" Bill shrieked. "She's a leopard! She almost tore my balls off!"

"She did like me, didn't she?" Leonard mused.

"...and I took Myrtle because I wanted a turtle..."

"Tortoise," Leonard corrected.

"...boys -- no. I'm not taking the car."

"Your wife would love it," Bill said.

"She's seen it; she hates it," De replied.

"What woman wouldn't _love_ this car?" Bill asked.

"Obviously, Len's wife," De replied. "Especially when she sees you, sees the hood, and can just about guess that this dent right here --" De outlined a long shape across most of the hood, "--is kind of Bill-shaped, don't you think?"

Bill looked at the dent on the hood, tilted his head, and squinted slightly. "Nah. You're imagining things."

"Oh believe me. I wish I _had_. No such luck."

"Face it, Bill," Leonard said. "I've gotta sell it."

Bill whined unintelligibly until Leonard wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"The least we can do," Bill said, "Is give it a fantastic going away party."

"That we can do," Leonard agreed.

*

"So let me get this straight," Leonard began two weeks later. "First, you forged my name on a public permit."

"'Forged' is such a... an accurate word, okay, continue."

"Good. We agree there. Then you had... how many fliers made?"

"Not many, a thousand or so."

"Aha. Right. Right. And these fliers advertised -- oh, you have one. Good. Let's see. _Mr. Spock's Space Junk Party_. Come up with that all on your own?"

"The flash of brilliance hit me mid-hoagie."

" _Mid-hoagie_?!" Leonard snapped. "You shut down my street and invited a thousand of your closest strangers to my home because of inspiration from a _hoagie_?!"

"Exposure for our girl, Len!"

"And did you bring hoagies for _everyone_ , Bill? How did you even get a hoagie in southern California?"

He wrapped an arm around Leonard's ribs and squeezed. "Do you see anyone raping or pillaging? No! I'm a firm believer in this: if you give people a time, a place, and an _excuse_ to get drunk and crazy, and they'll provide the drunk and the crazy all on their own. And the food. I think I saw a roast pig two blocks away."

"Worst Jew ever, worst friend ever, worse neighbor ever, worst --"

"Great party, Spock!" a guy yelled as he walked by.

"And I hate you," Leonard finished as he smiled and gave the passerby a Vulcan salute.

"Come on, sugar, let's find us some piggy."

*

Bill woke up outside. He looked around and realized he was in the Nimoys' driveway -- on the Buick's hood, to be exact. He sighed with relief when he saw Leonard curled up next to him, still asleep.

Then he realized there was a strange, sharp sensation in his pants. He slid off the hood and hesitated, then pulled on his waistband and looked into his boxers. Paper? Dozens of slips of paper? He reached in and grabbed several in his fist.

 _213 928 4838 Kirk beam me up love Amanda_

 _Joy 323 954 6721 mind melding over my screenplay_

 _661 292 4305 love you_

 _Mark call me 310 493 6490_

"Still got it," he said to himself as he closed his eyes and reclined on the hood and windshield again.

"This is a crime against Wednesdays," Leonard moaned next to him. "And the Buick is still _here_."

"Morning, Dad. Hi, Bill." They sat up and saw Leonard's 16-year-old son standing in the doorway. "I need a ride to school."

"Adam, I think we should talk about what happened last night," Bill said as he slid off the hood.

"What should we talk about?" he asked. "I have six dates this weekend and I think I've joined a band. Or a cult. This was the greatest party of all time."

"Bill," Leonard groaned as he dragged himself to the driver's side door of the Buick, "Come on. We'll drop Adam off, get some breakfast, and then I'll murder you. Sound good?"

"My treat."

*

There was nothing Bill could do. Leonard was going to sell the Buick. None of their friends would take it, there was no permanent storage lot that met their standards (of price, not safety; at this point they were willing to settle), so that was that. The Buick was going.

But Bill had an inkling, a tiny one, that Leonard fucking loved him (and loved fucking him, but that was neither here nor there), because he suggested another, much smaller, "Goodbye, Buick" party at an unpopular beach a few hours from their houses.

"You brought _sandwiches_ ," Bill cooed when Leonard pulled a real traditional picnic basket out of the backseat.

"I'm still mad at you, so some of the ones you like might have sawdust in them. I recommend the roast beef au sole of loafer, in particular."

"I _love_ sawdust, you beautiful man."

There was one last night on the Buick, one last ridiculous dent put in the hood (and the right back quarter panel), and then they drove back home.

*

Two nights later, they met again in the Nimoy family driveway and sat on the hood of the new family car -- a mid-size family sedan of some nondescript beige color.

"Let's do some math."

"Why do you keep thinking you're good at this sort of thing? You're not. Just cut your losses and run."

Leonard was jotting figures down anyway.

"How much did the fliers cost?"

"Twenty, thirty bucks. Probably thirty. Thirty-five. Let's round to forty, okay?"

"And that picnic was another twenty, and the five trips through the car wash to get the Buick clean after party was thirty..."

" _Five_ trips?"

"Even you don't want to know what you sat in that morning after." Leonard looked him in the face and then added, "Maybe you would, but I didn't -- couldn't -- identify what I saw. Anyway. Gas for the beach was two hundred bucks because, of course, we had to do this during an impending economic and oil crisis."

"Len," Bill gasped. Two hundred was a whole fucking lot for a joyride to the beach, one he wouldn't have gone along with if he had known.

"Don't worry, you're paying for half of that."

"Good. You know. So we can make joint appointments to declare bankruptcy."

"And fifty bucks for Adam's six dates -- lucky kid, four of them want to see him again. No wonder parents used to sell their sons into the priesthood. That's... three hundred and forty bucks."

"And how much did you get for the Buick?"

Bill edged away slightly because Leonard gave him a grin -- a wide, toothy, terrifying grin that just barely reached his eyes and reminded him of a hungry ( _hungry_ ) shark.

"Sixty bucks."

" _What_?!" Bill shrieked. "How --"

"The guy gave me an extra ten because he liked me on _Gunsmoke_."

He put an arm around Leonard's shoulders and sighed. "I'll cover half your losses, but hey: she's out of your hands now, right?"

"I liked her just as much as you did," Leonard replied as he leaned into Bill's shoulder. "First car that was all mine, not the family car. We had a good run. You and I stopped hating each other because of that car."

"I remember. She was a nice old broad. She'll be missed." Bill added, "Next year will be a better year, I know it."

 


End file.
